The Forgotten God
by Katsu
Summary: Maria and Preston meet in a crumbling cathedral and try to understand themselves while watched by a forgotten God. 8


**The Forgotten God**

The cathedral was a crumbling wreck, but no one would let the new government tear it down, even when they tried to promise they'd build a new one. Maria had found that to be no surprise; it was one of the few original buildings left, and the only church. So instead, grumbling with protest the entire time, the money and effort was being put toward restoring it. 

Her scarlet coat flapping at her ankles, she limped through the door, leaning heavily on her cane. A man sat to one side of the entrance, carefully collecting shards of stained glass, which he placed in a box filled with layers of padded cotton sheets. The cooing of rock doves and the whir of their wings was a constant sound overhead as they flew in and out of holes in the roof. Other workmen, pausing at their task of repairing the floor, were tearing the crusts of their lunches apart and throwing them on the floor for the birds. In the furthest off corner, an old man sat hunched over, a string of beads draped over his hands, blurred mumbling falling from his lips. 

It was dust and grey, sad light, sorrow that she could taste on her tongue. Bullet holes let in tiny shafts of light through the thick walls, and the smell of decaying wood and mold filled the air. Yet somewhere, deep below the surface, she could imagine the faint scent of burning candles and heavy incense, the sound of voices raised in a song that she had no concept to express. It made her throat feel thick, annoying her. 

He sat in the a pew six from the front, his hands loose in his lap. He wore black, but most former Clerics did; it was the only color they felt comfortable in. Even she winced some mornings at the color of her coat, but she needed to feel that momentary twinge in her stomach when she put it on. Grey smears of dust marred the dark perfection of his sleeves and pants, but he ignored the dirt with impressive stoicism. 

"Your son told me where to find you," she said without preamble. Her voice choked off when she tried to form her lips around the word 'Mister', and she settled for "Preston" instead. 

"John," he said, not looking at her, "Please call me John, Maria." 

"Some habits, I'm still trying to break." She smiled, twisting the metal hawk head on her cane. 

"I understand." He finally looked up. It was dark, and she couldn't really see his expression. She found she didn't want to. "Please, sit." 

Wincing internally at the thought of dirt and grime - another oddity of former clerics was an obsession with cleanliness - she did as he asked, seating herself next to him. Ahead in the darkness, she could see the faint outline of a carving on the wall, a man on a cross. 

"Robbie's worried about you," she said. 

"Oh. I'd better go home soon, then. I just thought I'd check on the progress of the work here." 

"He called me, John. Your son called me, because he said he didn't know who else to talk to. What did you do to frighten him so badly?" 

John shook his head, leaning back against the bench and fiddling with the front of his shirt. "I didn't do anything. At least I don't think so. I just told him that I needed to go out for a bit." 

"But you didn't say where, or when you'd be back. He only knew because he listens well. And he remembers." The words began to feel unnatural in her mouth, thick and surreal. She concentrated on remembering the conversation with Robbie, repeating what he had said and trying to ignore the pain that the boy's stark emotion had caused her. "John, he's terrified that every time you leave, you won't be coming back." 

Confusion flitted across his face. "I don't know why." 

She shrugged. "I'm not really certain either. From what he said, I'd guess it's because of the funeral." 

"That was over a week ago." 

"Maybe he's worried that you'll throw yourself out of a twelfth-story window as well." 

He snorted, the corner of his mouth tilting up. "That's...silly." 

"I know that and you know that. But that's emotional." 

His only answer was a slow nod and a solemn, regretful look. 

"Why did you come here today, John? I've been keeping an eye on you - you were here at the beginning of the week, and you know nothing really new would have happened between now and then. So why are you here?" 

It took a couple tries for him to speak. He finally pinched the bridge of his nose, and it came out in a rush. Still, his tone was cool, his words concise. "Exactly one year ago, I killed my partner, Errol Partridge here. I'm not certain why, but I felt compelled to come back." 

"I don't understand." 

"That makes two of us." John stood, not bothering to brush the dust from his pants, and walked toward the ruined altar before them. She had no choice but to follow, though much more slowly. As he bent to examine some prettily carved shards of wood on the floor, she looked at the cross that hung overhead, with its beatific god covered in peeling paint and bullet holes. None of it changed the serene expression on the wooden face, the calm in the painted blue eyes. 

"He was a Sense Offender. I came here to tell him that I'd have to take him in, to give him a chance at coming quietly. He was holding a book of poetry, by a man named Yeats, and he read to me: 'I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.' Then he drew his gun, and I had to shoot him." John said, standing. This time, he did brush away the fragments of wood that clung to the fabric. "He knew I didn't have a choice. And I knew it as well." 

"But still, you wish you could take it all back." Maria stated. 

"Every day. I dream about him sometimes. And there are times that I look through my memories, and I think that I can tell the exact moment when he stopped taking the dose." 

"It's alright." 

John looked at her, and the rawness in his eyes hurt. "I don't know if it can be." 

With her free hand, she drew him down to her shoulder, where he rested his forehead. There were no tears, no shaking, and no words. They merely leaned against each other until a pigeon landing on the altar destroyed the moment. John straightened, his eyes red but dry, his expression calm once more. "I should get home, talk to Robbie. I don't want him to have to worry any more." 

Maria nodded, words rising unbidden into her throat. As he turned away, they broke free. "I know how it is, John. I do understand. I faced those eyes and pulled that trigger." It seemed difficult to breathe around that admission, so she stopped talking. She couldn't bring herself to finish the thought anyway; the fact that she should have shot to kill and hadn't was a bleeding wound in her mind. 

"Thank you, Maria, " he said, and took two steps before speaking again, "You'll have to join us for dinner some time, by the way. I found an old book of my wife's, full of recipes, and taught Lisa how to make pancakes. She's getting really good at it." 

"I'd like that." 

"Expect a call in a few days, then," he said, and walked away, his feet crunching softly on the loose tiles. 

That was another habit among the former Clerics. They never bothered with goodbyes, not with each other. 

Maria listened to him leave, giving him a few minutes before she followed. In her gloves, her fingers were white with tension as for just a moment, she imagined the eyes of the forgotten God before her were grey instead of blue. 


End file.
